Waiting
by Rosethorn
Summary: Companion piece to Fragile Things. How Murphy came to terms with lifespans and other issues. HarryMurphy.


Waiting

Something was beeping steadily in the distance. A hallmark of hospitals, that stereotypical sound you always heard in the backgrounds of medical shows. Why could she still hear it?

She wasn't even in the hospital anymore. They kicked her out when a nurse found her asleep in the chair at about one-thirty. They'd become a lot more draconian about visitors since the renovation; trying to keep the hospital clean, she supposed. Clean and with a distinct aura of "hospital." Including beeping things.

He had to say it. The stupid wiseass _had_ to go and say it. "You realize this means war." Of _course_ he was going to get shot! He was just damned lucky the bullet hit at precisely the right angle, or else he'd have a ventilated brain. Maybe that should be _unlucky,_ because God knew some of the things he said could only be attributed to the overheating of too much thinking.

They'd given her strict instructions to go home and sleep, not that she bothered to pay attention. She had medical leave herself, what with the broken arm and all, and there was just no way she was leaving him to wake up alone.

_If_ he woke up.

------

The nurses changed at eight in the morning. At eight-oh-three, she was back by his bedside.

He hadn't moved at all in the seven hours since she'd left. He still looked terrible; so pale that the white bandage across his forehead nearly blended in, and his faint stubble and loose strands of hair stood out like ink on paper. She brushed the hair off his face and closed her eyes, and did not cry. She would cry for him when he was dead, and he wasn't dead yet.

Of course, if he survived this, there was always the possibility that she wouldn't get to cry for him at all. More than a possibility, she'd once thought, more like a probability. But was it really? This was _Harry Dresden_ she was thinking about. Harry Dresden, who regularly tried to get himself killed. In the past year alone he'd ended up in the hospital twice, and injured far more than that.

She caught herself smiling fondly and scowled in frustration. It wasn't going to happen. She'd told herself and him that. It couldn't happen, because... her mind faltered.

She wanted him. There was really no denying that and she hadn't even bothered to try. He wanted her. Likewise no point in denying it. Was it more than that? On either side?

Her own feelings first. Lord knew she worried about him enough. Whenever he ran off without telling her, or managed to get himself nearly killed (like he was doing with increasing regularity), or even ran off while bringing her along, she worried. She was certainly fond of him. There was just no way anyone could put up with him without at least a little affection there. Was that love?

Her mother had once said that love was only affection well-laced with lust. She certainly had that. So... maybe. Maybe, leaning towards yes.

And for him. She knew Harry, and she knew that he probably never would have said anything if he didn't feel something for her beyond lust. Harry didn't do casual sex or brief dating. If he offered himself to her, she had him for as long as she wanted him.

Honestly, that scared her a little.

She touched his cheek, felt his growing beard rough against her fingers. She didn't have the best track record with men, and so far at least two of her exes had managed to find true love and keep a relationship going. Gregory hadn't (there had been three other ex-wives at his funeral), but then he was a skunk to begin with. As for the rest, the common denominator was her.

Maybe she couldn't keep a relationship going. Maybe that was the problem. Who could put up with all her prickles and rough edges? Who would _want_ to? Rick and Gregory, they both married her after less than a year of knowing her. Maybe if she'd dated them longer, things never would have gotten that far. Maybe they would have left without ever proposing.

Her hand was still on Harry's face, and she looked down at him and wondered exactly how long he'd known her. Ten years? Eleven? He knew her inside and out, better than anyone else had ever known her since... since she'd graduated from high school, probably. He knew her prickles and he knew her annoyances. If anything, he knew them better than he knew her soft spots, her girlishness and her happiness. The point remained, he knew her.

So much for that argument.

But he would live forever.

But would he?

Her fingers lingered over his face, tracing his cheekbones, his nose, his eyebrows, and stopping just short of the bandage. If the bullet had hit at any other angle, he would be dead right now. And who was to say the next one wouldn't hit wrong? Or maybe he'd piss off the wrong person and get his heart ripped right out of his chest, or burst into flame, or be frozen solid. Given his luck with boats, he could even drown. There were so many ways for a person to die, and for him, there were so many more.

She scolded herself briefly—that should _not_ be a comforting thought, and yet it was.

So maybe they wouldn't grow old together. So maybe they wouldn't grow old at all. Would it honestly matter to him? Would it honestly matter to her?

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, took her hand away from his face.

No. No, it wouldn't matter.

His hand lay limp against the sheets, and she took it up, pressed it between both of hers. If he lived, she would tell him, she decided. She would tell him she'd lied in the elevator, and she would tell him she loved him. If he lived through this, she'd let go.

She waited. If he lived.

--------

Later, so much later. She'd held his hand and watched the sun creep across the bed. Nurses went in and out, gave her odd looks. A doctor came in once, read his chart, gave her a sympathetic look. If he didn't wake soon... she would not cry. He would live, and she would tell him.

Something squeezed her hand then, and she focused on his face with sudden intensity—yes, his eyes were open, he was awake, thank God. She blinked back the tears. He'd lived.

"Murph?" he rasped, squeezing her hand again.

"I'm here," she told him. "I'm here."


End file.
